


No Sleep for the Wicked: The 140th Hunger Games

by darth_nell



Series: New Friends, New Enemies [3]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 140th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arena (Hunger Games), Canon-Typical Violence, Careers (Hunger Games), District 8 (Hunger Games), F/M, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Original Arena(s) (Hunger Games), POV Male Character, POV Third Person, The Capitol (Hunger Games), Trauma, Violence, vehicular manslaughter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darth_nell/pseuds/darth_nell
Summary: It’s a mentor’s job to bring their tribute home in one piece. Success is rare, but it doesn’t end with the arena. Guiding a new Victor through the fallout of the Games is paramount, even if it requires reliving your own worst memories.(Note: This work contains spoilers for Widow’s Bite, the previous work in this series. As this is completely based on original characters, I suggest reading Widow’s Bite first.)
Relationships: Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: New Friends, New Enemies [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983611
Comments: 29
Kudos: 10





	1. Beginnings and Gateways

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Doublefaced by In Strict Confidence (https://youtu.be/c-rR_0btsLc)
> 
> _There is no choice, feign that you like it  
>  Keep on pretend, you do it well  
> There is no choice, put on your daily mask_

____

Sleep never came easy to Janus, no matter how hard he tried. If the basic needs of the human body hadn’t demanded it, Janus would’ve given up altogether and focused his time on something more productive, like figuring out how the hell he was going to get District Eight’s latest Victor through the year to come. But this past Hunger Games season had truly exhausted Janus more than any in recent memory. If fortune decided to smile on him, the dull murmur of a television program would sometimes do the trick, like the nature documentary currently playing on the wide projector screen of the viewing car. 

Of course, sleeping in his quarters might solve the problem, though that led to an increased risk of actually falling asleep.

The probability of approaching sleep quickly reached zero when the car door slowly opened, revealing the disconcertingly static face of the newly-crowned fourteen year-old Victor, puffy air cast and all. “Hello, Thariin,” he greeted, the dead of night muting his voice to a low murmur. “Good—“ he glanced at the number three in the corner of the screen “—morning, I suppose.”

Her motive quickly became clear. “Aspirin pills?” 

“Ah.” Swiftly, Janus roused himself from where he lay lengthwise on the couch, popping into his quarters next door to snag the bottle of orange pills and a glass of water. “Concussion still acting up?” he asked upon his return. Concussion — or a bit of a hangover. He really should’ve done a better job watching over her at the banquet. 

Mutely, Thariin nodded, swallowing the pills and curling into herself on the couch opposite him. She stared unabashedly in his direction, her eyes round and blank. Janus couldn’t help but worry. 

He should've kept a stricter eye on her as soon as she’d exited the arena; it still grated that Loki had slipped past him for the cosmetic replacement of Thariin’s canines. He had to do better; things would only get more difficult from here.

If she were anything like himself — and he suspected she was — it would take a diamond-tipped needle to dig out the truth of her feelings. Not that she needed that just yet, but since he’d gotten her this far, Janus felt almost responsible for her, a feeling he usually associated with his daughter, Zhara. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he returned from the Hunger Games with a new responsibility in the shape of a girl; already, Thariin promised to be much more difficult than Zhara, though fortunately, the former already had two functioning parents. 

Janus only hoped her parents were equipped to handle their daughter’s new situation. “Are you looking forward to your return?” he asked. 

After a brief moment of hesitation, Thariin shook her head no, and Janus felt his heart sink. He couldn’t blame her; he’d been the same way. At least she’d face better return conditions than he had, he was sure of it. 

“It’s alright,” he said, inwardly cursing himself as soon as the words left his mouth. Of course it wasn’t alright. Facing your family after murdering nine people was something no fourteen year-old should have to deal with. And that wasn’t even mentioning the murder itself and the havoc it would no doubt wreak on the poor girl’s mindset. 

Janus could see hints of it already in her behavior, from her paranoia immediately after exiting the arena to how she lashed out at her stylist. The flashes of anger clearly visible on her face whenever the boy from Thirteen was mentioned. The disconcerting way in which she flip-flopped between emptiness, a veneer of normalcy, and something he hesitated to dub as pride. No, she was not, in fact, alright. 

But who would be, after that? He certainly hadn’t been. Still wasn’t.

A tense kind of quiet hung in the air, full of pressing uncertainty. Thariin stared at him, _through_ him, her eyes reflecting the snowscape plastered to the projector. Janus had seen that look before on different people; getting lost in her thoughts would be a dangerous thing to do in her position. She couldn’t get lost, not yet. “Thariin?” he said tentatively. 

“What?” she snapped, blinking out of her daze.

 _It would be nice if I actually had some advice to give her._ Instead, he reached for the blanket draped on the couch behind him and held it out to her. She accepted, cocooning herself within its plush mass. 

For the moment, her attention was captured by the documentary, currently following a fluffy-looking family of arctic polar bears, and Janus allowed himself to drift in his own thoughts — thoughts and worries. 

At least there was one significant fear that had been lifted from his chest forever: Zhara. She’d aged out of the reaping for good; never would she be condemned to die in the arena if he slipped up in the Capitol. The irony of this year being the first in which he’d brought back a Victor was not lost on him, at least the first that he could take full credit for. Barnabas had come eight years following his own Games, though like himself, Barnabas’s Victory belonged to his former mentor, Coraline Shuttler. 

Since the botched 75th Hunger Games, failed Second Rebellion, and the consecutive execution of the remaining Victors, District Eight had only managed to produce five new Victors — six now. Ingram Featherschill had passed well before Janus’s own Games, having won in the 79th year, and Mischa Ruthe shortly afterwards. Coraline had only succumbed to acute heart failure some ten years ago, and he missed her abrasive presence dearly. Janus wondered if she’d be proud of him now, though, arguably, it was Thariin who’d done most of the work. 

It was only the beginning for Thariin, too. Janus didn’t have the heart to regal her with the gory details of Victory so soon after having the wound inflicted and subsequently ripped open. Even the thought of telling her made his stomach lurch, but it could wait until she’d at least gotten somewhat settled into her new life. For as long as he could, Janus resolved to keep her under his wing, away from prying eyes until she could put herself back together; he had no intentions of abandoning her to the wolves of the Capitol. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Janus watched as she stared absently at the polar bears on the screen, doing his best to push aside the ever-growing list of worries. _Appreciate the quiet moments while you have them,_ his mother had always said, though it was raising Zhara that had truly taught him the meaning of the words.

Almost as if she could sense his train of thought, Thariin turned to look at him, her stare oddly intense. She hesitated before speaking. “Before I went into the arena, you asked me if I wanted to watch your Hunger Games.”

So much for quiet moments. He cracked a half-smile. “Don’t like the bears?”

“I want to think about something else,” she said with a light shrug. 

Clearly, Thariin needed a stronger distraction from whatever currently plagued her mind. The thought of his time in the arena brought a familiar dread leaking into the pit of his stomach, and Janus suspected he would quickly come to regret placing that offer on the table. But this was the closest thing he’d come to a promise in recent years, and he had more than a lifetime’s worth of broken ones to make up for. And so, pointing the television remote at the screen, Janus selected the program titled with his name and the year he’d won. “If you find that you’re not up to it, I would understand,” he said, offering Thariin a last chance to back out. She said nothing, of course, so he pressed play. 

While her eyes glued to the nation’s seal flashing across the screen, Janus quietly slipped out of the room and through the corridor to the concessions car. To his mild surprise, he found a grumpy-looking Barnabas already occupying the room, snuffling through the cabinets for another bottle of wine to pilfer. “What might you be doing up so late?” he asked his fellow Victor, though he didn’t really need to. 

The younger man grunted in response, finally deciding upon the desired beverage. “Could say the same to you,” Barnabas said, cranking the cork out of the bottle. 

While Janus was hardly one to judge people for their coping mechanisms, twenty years of dealing with Barnabas had put a slight damper on his tolerance for his companion’s unfortunate habit. His weakness for the bottle had been infinitely more bearable while Coraline had been alive to help with mentoring duties. Ever since her passing, however, Barnabas’s incompetency had necessitated that Janus keep a clear head, which he strictly made a point to anyways, though he chafed at the choice being taken from him.

Janus didn’t answer the younger man immediately, fixing himself a mug of steaming cocoa. Capitol accommodations certainly provided only the best; nobody else would’ve thought it necessary to put warm milk on tap. “Thariin and I have decided to watch my Hunger Games,” he said neutrally, stirring the cocoa into his drink. 

A grimace of pity flashed across Barnabas’s features; pulling a bottle of peppermint schnapps from the cabinet, he offered it to the older Victor. Well, sometimes Janus could bend the rules. He accepted with a wry smile, pouring a hearty shot of liquor into the cocoa. He had a feeling he’d need it. 

“Let me guess, it was her idea?” Barnabas huffed, not bothering with a glass for his drink. 

Janus frowned, nodding as he sipped from the top of his mug, not wanting to spill anything on the way back. “I did offer, before she went into the arena,” he said, almost defensively.

Barnabas shook his head. “There’s something wrong with that kid,” he muttered, taking another swig from his bottle. 

Leaning against the countertop, Janus raised an eyebrow at his companion. “There’s something a little wrong with all of us, no?”

The heavyset man shot him a glare, though it lacked real heat. “You know what I mean,” Barnabas insisted.

He wasn’t exactly wrong. Hadn’t Janus’s thoughts drifted along a similar line just now? Now that Thariin had the chance, there was no telling what kind of Victor she would grow into. A miserable alcoholic like Barnabas, or a cold, weary insomniac like himself? Perhaps she’d come out better than the both of them, or worse; either way, she wouldn’t be unscathed. 

Janus only shrugged in response to Barnabas’s disquiet, scooping up his drink to leave the car. “Get some sleep, Shyle,” he heard Barnabas say on his way out; Janus gave him a two fingered salute, not bothering to turn around. 

Back in the viewing car, the reaping ceremonies were just nearing District Eight’s. Thariin’s gaze immediately snapped to the door upon his return. “What’s that?” she demanded, eyeing his drink. 

“Not for you,” Janus said dismissively, recalling again the unfortunate incident at her banquet. 

She huffed in disappointment. If Janus had any say in the matter, there would be no alcoholic beverages for her for at least another four years. Perhaps he could bring it up with her parents.

Reluctantly, Janus turned his attention to the screen. As usual, the recording gave more focus to the winning district, spending far too much time surveying the bleakness and terrified faces of the crowd in District Eight’s city square. The grey shadow of the clouds overhead washed out even the most colorful banners, leeching the soul from the city. At least it hadn’t been raining, like it had in the other districts; Eight had gotten lucky that year, in more ways than one. _Relatively speaking._

In contrast, the bright purple of the escort’s garish Capitol-made suit practically glowed under the gloom. Janus had forgotten how horrible the ensemble had been; who had told poor Lionel that putting neon-toned flowers on an already vibrant purple fedora was a good idea? 

Lionel drew a slip from the girls’ bowl first, calling seventeen year-old Lorelei Carteret to the reaping stage. Janus’s breath caught in his throat; he hadn’t been expecting the fresh wave of emotion that came with seeing Lorelei’s face again. He could only hope that it hadn’t shown on his own. 

Slowly, Lorelei made her way through the crowd and onto the stage, looking scared and forlorn in her dark green reaping dress, silent tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. For a heartbeat, Janus wished he could reach through the screen to wipe them away and tell her that everything would be alright. 

But it wouldn’t; Janus was the one sitting on a train back home to District Eight some twenty years later, not her. 

Next, Lionel trilled out his own name, and the camera easily found his younger self in the crowd. As his peers parted to let him through, Janus was struck by the bizarrity of watching these events from the outside rather than living them, as if he hadn’t ever been there at all. He still recognized himself in the seventeen year-old boy on the screen, barely reacting to the almost-certain death sentence save for a short exhale of breath. Of course, Janus no longer wore his hair in neatly-spaced cornrows, and he’d outgrown the suit he’d worn that day, though it still hung in his closet, its color only a shade darker than the sky. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Thariin took in his appearance with rapt attention, her expression calculating. “I made that suit,” Janus said aside to her, and she nodded in approval. 

It had been the first one he’d cut and stitched together on his own; his father had been so proud.

On stage, he and Lorelei shook hands. Janus remembered how she’d looked at him that first time, seemingly reassured by his calm stoicness. They were led offstage by Peacekeepers, and Janus huffed in amusement as his younger self gave the crowd a cheeky two-fingered salute. 

Before the Games, he’d never known Lorelei, though they were the same age; he’d attended one of the outlying district schools rather than the main central one where she’d gone. Nevertheless, Lorelei had glued herself to him every chance she’d got during the prep week, in desperate need of a friendly face. He’d gone along with it, despite their mentors’ pursed faces; it wasn’t like he’d had any other advantages. _Be honest,_ the truthful half of his brain chided. _That was the first time a pretty girl ever took that much interest in you._

Pushing the thought away, Janus watched as the program blinked through the other districts’ reaping ceremonies before settling on the spectacle of the tribute parade. He grimaced at the memory of being plucked and prodded like a bird for supper, though he’d gotten luckier with his costume than Barnabas had. A high-collared sleeveless top melted into a flowing skirt of light fabrics of a warm color scheme for himself and cool colors for Lorelei. The camera lights glinted off the gold beads the prep team had woven into his hair, no doubt catching the eyes of his future sponsors. 

The program swept through the training days with promptness, as they weren’t televised. A mere couple of seconds between the parade and the reading of the scores; a couple of seconds which, in real time, had allowed Janus and Lorelei to scope out their competition, form alliances, and cram some mostly-useless skills into their heads. The edible plants station had been a spectacularly worthless waste of time, though fire-starting, healing, and the unusual electronics station had proved more fruitful, in terms of skills and allies. 

The plan devised by himself and Coraline had involved laying low and acquiring a group of allies, similar to the advice he’d given Thariin, though he’d been much more dedicated to staying under the radar than she had, considering she’d earned twice his training score. 

For his private session, Janus had resolved himself to chucking some poorly-thrown knives at various targets. He didn’t even have to feign lack of skill, though he’d gotten better since then; knife-throwing made a decent hobby. He supposed the only reason they’d given him a five instead of a two was because he’d also managed to set the ropes course on fire. During the group training sessions, he recalled seeing the tributes from Eleven scampering across the overhead netting like a couple of squirrels; considering they’d both scored fours, the Gamemakers hadn’t bothered to replace it afterwards. 

Again, the program sped through the interviews fairly quickly, playing only a couple of clips from the Careers and his future allies: the confident Rex of District Two, expressing how much he looked forward to returning to his friends back home; Amalthea of District Four, eager for the fight to begin; the excitable sixteen year-old Boxer from District Six; Lorelei and himself, of course, the former mentioning her boyfriend back home. Only his interview was played in full, for obvious reasons. 

Seventeen year-old Janus sat across from the host — a pointy yet friendly blonde woman at the time — in a burgundy crushed-velvet suit; even back then, Janus knew he could’ve done a better job with its fit. “And how do you like the Capitol so far, Mr. Shyle?” the host asked him with a pleasant smile. 

As critical as they had been, Janus recalled the interview being one of the easier parts of it all, a skill that certainly helped him now as a mentor, as they only increased in number. On the screen, he returned the host’s smile easily. “Well, after I finished crying my eyes out,” he said sarcastically, “I was definitely able to appreciate it more. It’s certainly a much grander city than Eight.”

The host laughed amiably at his tone, and Thariin shot him a glance from her couch across from him. “Did you actually cry?”

Janus chuckled at that. “I did,” he said, unashamed. It was a natural reaction, after all. 

Thariin, however, looked stunned. He remembered her stout refusal to shed a tear during her hours before the arena and understood that she viewed crying as a sort of weakness. A potentially damaging idea, if she refused to let herself feel the full range of her emotions as a result; he’d have to work on that with her. 

He let the moment pass as the interview continued. “This suit, however,” his teenaged self was saying, shaking his head and fiddling with its velvet cuffs. “I think my stylist hemmed it himself, and…” He scoffed in distaste. “I can tell.”

The audience tittered at the stylist’s expense, a subtle point in his favor; with that little quip, he was more than just ‘district scum’ in their eyes. “I got poor Florentus fired for that,” Janus said to Thariin, chuckling at the memory of his stylist's panicked glares after the interview. Like himself, Thariin took amusement from the notion, though Florentus had wished him a slow death upon entering the arena. Either way, Janus had never seen the man since. 

The last interview clip wrapped up with the quiet but endearing Cinda of District Twelve, one of the two twelve year-olds. Janus kept his expression even as they watched, the camera shifting gears to the start of the Games. 

Again, the program spent merely seconds of transitions on what had been a brutal, sleepless night for many of the tributes, himself included. But Janus was infinitely grateful that the intrusion of a television camera halted at their private quarters. The audience didn’t get to see the last-minute panic that had threatened to engulf him, much like it had with Thariin. They didn’t get to see how Lorelei, also kept awake by the rising terror, had knocked on his door in the early hours of the morning, fresh tears brimming in her eyes. They didn’t get to see how he held her, whispering false platitudes into her hair while she regained control of her fears, and how he bottled his own deep in the pit of his stomach. They didn’t care, so they didn’t get to see. 

Thariin didn’t get to see either. She saw only what the program showed, watching astutely as the screen flashed between clips of the various tributes in the stockyards, poised on their launch pads, though most of the focus was on himself. 

An announcer called for launch, and the pads beneath the feet of the tributes began to rise, bringing them into the arena, a clock starting the countdown from sixty seconds. 

On the screen, the younger Janus blinked away the blinding sun, taking in his surroundings. Sharp glares bounced off the vertices of a golden Cornucopia, glowing like a beacon in the midst of the ruins of a once-shimmering city; it was this city, more often than the gleaming Capitol, that haunted Janus’s dreams whenever he did manage to sleep. The hollowed-out husks of a pre-Panem civilization were enough to send a shiver down anyone’s spine, but combined with the events that transpired here…

The starting gong went off, and Janus with it, faster than the two tributes next to him. 

Near the center of the Cornucopia, he scooped up two packs and a solid-looking knife before any of the eight Careers had even gotten close. On his way out, however, he took a throwing axe to the arm, courtesy of the District Two girl. Janus winced at the memory of the sharp pain, though it paled in comparison to everything else. Fortunately, the blade had only grazed his shoulder, and he kept running, leaping over a pile of rubble to disappear into the city. 

He’d met up with his allies not long afterwards: Lorelei of course, Boxer from District Six, and little Cinda from Twelve. They sprinted through the city, weaving through streets to put a solid distance between themselves and the ongoing horror of the Bloodbath. 

Across from him, Janus caught the beginning of a question forming on Thariin’s lips, though it receded when Cinda began to expertly stitch up the younger Janus’s wound. Her mouth pursed in thought before she reconsidered her words. “Why’d you pick the other two?”

Forty-five year-old Janus took a long sip of his spiked cocoa. “Boxer was scrawny, but good with gadgets and snares,” he explained.

“And Lorelei?” 

_Yes, why her?_ It was a question everyone had seemed to ask. Janus paused, watching his younger self and his allies scour the city ruins. “Common courtesy.”

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you guys I’m a slow writer.. though it could be because when I rewrote this from Janus’s POV, it ended up being like ~4K words longer... it’s for the best lol
> 
> This scene/fic was originally going to be part of the last chapter of Widow’s Bite, but it Very quickly got out of hand.. I figured it would probably distract from Riin’s story, and also Janus deserves his own little fic lol


	2. Changes and Transitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: Chrome by VNV Nation (https://youtu.be/FTL8NtqGdw4)
> 
> _If I could change your mind  
>  I wouldn’t save you from the path you wander  
> In desperation dreams any soul can set you free  
> And I still hear you scream  
> In every breath, in every single motion  
> Burning innocence the fire to set you free_

____

_“You’ll want to consider choosing the weakest allies. Gain their trust, and foster a dependence on yourself. Seeking them out will give them hope. It will draw them to yourself, and they’ll be that much easier to eliminate.”_

Janus usually reserved this piece of friendly advice for tributes he suspected wouldn’t recoil in horror at the thought. He hadn’t given it to many, though Thariin was one of them. _Look where it got her,_ Janus thought, in an attempt to make himself feel better. The rational part of his brain had a different idea. _Look where it got you._

He wondered what Thariin was thinking now as she studied the dynamics between the younger Janus and his alliance. Did she remember his advice?

In a way, Janus almost missed spending time with the three of them. It had been nice, at least in the moments where he hadn’t been thinking about the impending fate facing all of them. Had it not been for the Hunger Games, he would’ve never met Boxer, or Cinda, or probably even Lorelei. _They would’ve been better off for it._

But Janus was glad to have known them, as selfish as it were. 

The initial Bloodbath had claimed the lives of nine tributes, and, over the course of five days, Career hunting parties took out three more, and giant rat mutts another. 

Janus and his allies had managed to stay out of most trouble, earning only a couple scratches from a falling hunk of building. They’d gotten along well enough, making easy conversation during their time. He remembered how Boxer felt the need to stop and oogle every rusted car, going so far as to paw through a few for entertainment. His search turned fruitful when he resurfaced one time with a dusty but sealed bag of what turned out to be potato chips. The chips probably dated back before the formation of Panem, but they had been edible, thankfully.

As the one who’d brought them together in the first place, Janus had subtly positioned himself as the unelected leader of the group. He tolerated Boxer’s car searches while Lorelei whined, even going so far as to praise him for finding the food. During the hours when little Cinda could barely speak with fear, Janus took it upon himself to offer a comforting hand. And Lorelei… Back then, he might not have noticed the glances she directed towards him in failed attempts to be discreet, but he did now. She’d always found a way to walk nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with him, boyfriend back home, or not. It hadn’t really mattered, anyways. 

Inside of what used to be a grocery store, the alliance found more bags of potato chips in addition to some canned vegetables. The combination of slimy wax beans and stale chips soured the faces of each tribute in turn, but nobody dared to complain out loud. Better fed than dead.

Parked outside of the store was another vehicle, its formerly baby blue paint shot through with rust; the rounded car almost resembled some sort of bug. From his comfortable position on the couch, Janus felt his mouth crack in a smile of amusement at the memory before his conscience chased it away. 

Boxer’s eyes lit up immediately. “No way,” he breathed, rushing towards the car. Jimmying the door open, he poked around the inside, his legs hanging out of the driver’s side door comically. 

“Ugh, do we have to do this again?” Lorelei rolled her eyes. 

Folding his arms, Janus watched Boxer’s process with mild interest. “Ah, come on, let him play around, Lor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, adult-Janus saw Thariin raise an eyebrow at the nickname, but he ignored her wordless query. 

On the screen, Cinda poked her head in to get a closer look at what Boxer was doing. A couple seconds later, a loud revving erupted from the car, and she jumped backwards in fright. Boxer’s head emerged from under the steering wheel, grinning like a madman. 

“Boxer, you’re a genius,” teenaged Janus said, returning the grin. “You know what; this gives me an idea...” The others perked up at that; it was high time they did something more interesting than sort through abandoned cars. “First, though, would you show me how to do that?”

“Sure thing, buddy,” Boxer said eagerly, disconnecting the engine. It took only a couple of minutes for Boxer to teach him how to properly hotwire the car; Janus remembered the excitement he’d felt at finally getting it, visible in his expression as his genuine laugh echoed through the screen. Some things, he’d never forgotten; this one actually came in handy every now and then. Gingerly, the younger Janus scooted the car out of its ancient parking spot, driving a couple meters down the street to get the hang of it before turning around. Lorelei and Cinda hopped smartly out of the way as he parked the vehicle back in its original place. 

“You have to teach me that,” Thariin said from her position across the car. Janus had a feeling that he’d regret doing such a thing, but gave her a knowing smile in return. _Her parents are definitely going to kill me._

While his alliance was a good distance from the Cornucopia, their activities had made a lot of noise, and the dead air of the empty city only propagated the sound further. Shots of the Careers at the golden horn confirmed that they'd heard the strange rumbling. They dispatched two to investigate, the District One female and the District Three male, leaving the other two to guard, as three of them were already out hunting and one had been killed by mutts earlier. 

Meanwhile, outside of the old grocery store, Janus was starting a fire with bits of fabric and plastic he’d found inside. Cinda watched him apprehensively, glancing nervously between the growing flames and the empty streets. “Won’t that tell people where we are?” she asked worriedly. 

“Sure thing,” Janus confirmed. “Which is what we want. You and Lorelei need to get in the back of the car, and keep your heads down. I think this fire’s enough; Boxer, come up here with me.”

Janus climbed into the driver’s side of the car with Boxer in the passenger seat, handing the kid the wires as best as he could; Boxer had to stretch over the center console to reach them. They both tucked their heads below the windshield, and just in time as the two Careers rounded the street corner. Cinda let out a small gasp, and Janus gestured for them to be quiet while the Careers poked around the abandoned fire. 

A simple plan, really, and yet Janus still remembered the feeling of his heart pounding in his chest, as if any beat could be its last. 

_‘On my mark,’_ the teenaged Janus mouthed to Boxer, who nodded. The former poked his head to peer through the steering wheel; the two Careers stood next to each other, only a couple of meters in front of the car. 

At the snap of Janus’s fingers, Boxer sparked the wires. Immediately, Janus slammed on the gas pedal, plowing straight into the two Careers with a jarring impact. No time for them to jump away, their startled screams cut off by the weight of the vehicle. The camera caught Janus’s and Boxer’s expressions: wild excitement and stunned shock. 

A cannon sounded, but only one. Janus hopped out of the car, drawing his knife. 

It was the District Three male, still alive and groaning as the car tire crushed his knee into the asphalt. Janus watched his younger self through the screen, pausing to stare at the Career; Three glared back, all burning pain and hatred. He knew what was coming. 

Running over someone with a car was one thing, but this had been different. His first real test of the arena: to blatantly snuff out another’s life. The thoughts had raced through his mind then as they did now, analyzing the different outcomes that had vanished with a single decision.

Almost delicately, Janus knelt and drove the knife into the boy’s chest. The second cannon boomed. 

Who would he be now if he’d refused to kill? _Probably just as dead as him._

When Janus turned around, he’d found the other three staring at him wide-eyed. “Let’s go,” he said flatly. They followed him, but from a distance this time; even Lorelei didn’t make an attempt to catch up.

Back then, it had stung Janus more than he cared to admit. _What did they expect from me?_ he’d thought. Someone had to get rid of the Careers; that someone just happened to be himself. He’d long since gotten over the offense, as there were far bigger problems he’d had to deal with since.

From across the room, Thariin wore the oddly thoughtful expression of an impartial observer, her eyes roaming over the faces of Janus’s younger self and allies. He took a small sip from his mug of less-than-hot cocoa, trying to ignore Barnabas’s words from earlier.

That night, the four tributes sheltered in an abandoned furniture store, eating stale chips for dinner in silence. Janus recalled how the others had pointedly avoided his gaze, and resigned himself to an odd sort of isolation, though before they could finish the pathetic meal, a large, ghostly parachute landed just outside the store. He’d taken it upon himself to carefully collect the bounty, presenting its contents of a warm grain-and-meat stew to his allies as one would an olive branch. 

Despite their reservations about the events from earlier, the three of them graciously accepted. Lorelei even offered him a small smile of thanks, and Janus pushed away the memory of how it had made his heart beat a little faster.

The lights in the furniture store flickered dully while they ate. Afterwards, Janus sat himself on one of the stiff benches in the store, keeping watch as the others drifted off to sleep. Most of the others; after a minute, Lorelei sat down next to him with a quiet, “Hey.” He’d responded with a tight grimace, well aware of the shift in tone of their alliance, but unsure yet where she personally stood. “You alright?”

Janus watched his younger self shrug in an attempt to be nonchalant. “Why wouldn’t I be?” _God, that was a stupid thing to say._

“You killed someone today,” Lorelei said, pointing out the obvious. 

A brief pause. “Yeah, I did.”

Well, he’d certainly never been one to spill his feelings out into the open like a full cup of milk in a clumsy toddler’s hands, even when it came to something like murder. Especially when it came to something like murder. No, he was more of a practiced waiter balancing a tray of precariously slender martini glasses in one hand, careful never to spill a drop into the laps of his patrons.

Understandably, Lorelei didn’t know how to respond to that, so she simply scooted closer to him on the wooden bench, pressing against his side and resting her head on his shoulder. 

She’d caught him off-guard, especially given how she’d hung back from him earlier. She should've stayed away. But Janus remembered the comfort her presence had brought, as much as he’d tried to pretend he didn’t need it. _Selfish, selfish,_ a voice hissed in the corner of his mind, even now. 

They kept watch in silence, glimpsing the portraits of the dead heralded by the anthem through the sliding door of the furniture store. The plexiglass distorted their faces, half-hidden behind the skyscrapers outside; probably for the best. 

Hours — though mere minutes, by the program’s time — passed before the relative peace was broken by a loud cannon blast reverberating through the buildings in the arena. Cinda shot up from her resting place with a muffled shriek before dissolving into quiet sobs. Thanks to the all-seeing nature of the program filling in the holes that didn’t belong to Janus’s firsthand memory, he saw that a mutt attack had taken out the District Four boy: sharp-beaked pigeons with razor-like talons raided the Career camp at the Cornucopia in a mess of blood, feathers, and scattered food packages. They didn’t chase after the remaining four Careers, content with their feast of meal rations. 

The rest of the early morning hours were spent comforting Cinda, who managed to pull herself together with a group effort. Accepting that they wouldn't get any more sleep, the four of them wandered around the furniture store, stumbling across some old pillows and blankets. Boxer had the idea to use them to build a miniature fortress, a brief distraction from the horror of the Games. It had improved the mood of the entire group immensely, almost completely easing the tensions created by the previous afternoon’s murder as the four of them huddled closely together under the tower of blankets. 

Blanket forts never failed to bring good memories; some of Janus’s favorite nights had been spent camping with his daughter under a fort of fluffy bedding within the walls of his excessively large mansion in Victor’s Village. He treasured the softness of those moments, Zhara’s bubbling laughter and dreamlike excitement far outweighing the ache in his back the following morning. Ironically, those were some of the few nights he’d actually slept well. 

With dawn, however, terror returned to the arena, beginning with an odd-looking pigeon poking around inside the store. Janus’s lip curled at the sight of it from his place on the couch; he still hated the damn things.

In the span of seconds, a mass of pigeon mutts swarmed the building, and the younger Janus and his allies scrambled to their feet immediately. Lorelei yanked the leg off from a rickety wooden chair, desperately swatting pigeons as she ran; Cinda fell behind, crying out as a bird scratched her leg. Without thinking, Janus turned around to grab her, lifting the girl over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as they broke into open air. 

The birds burst through the doors in a tornado of feathers and screeches. Boxer, about a meter or two ahead, led the way through the city, and the four of them swerved around trash cans and piles of rubble until they could hardly breathe. At some point, Janus shifted Cinda so she was riding piggy back, clutching his neck like a vice; he’d hardly even noticed her fingernails digging into his skin until later. They ducked into a doorway as the birds bulleted past, hopefully losing track of their quarry. Lorelei stood guard at the door, her chair-leg club clutched in white-knuckled fingers as she frantically scanned for more pigeons. 

A crate shifted from inside the store, and Lorelei reacted without thinking, darting towards the moving blur with her club raised. It cracked against the skull of what had turned out to be the District Thirteen girl; Lorelei swung again, and again, the sickening thuds soon followed by the boom of a cannon. 

The sound drew her out of the frenzy, her entire body beginning to tremble as she took in the gravity of what she’d just done. 

Silent tears poured from her eyes as the club fell from her grip with a clatter; Lorelei sank to the floor, tucking her head between her knees in an attempt to control her breathing. Janus crouched next to her, gently patting her shoulder in what he’d hoped was a comforting manner.

Poor little Cinda couldn't take her eyes off the bloody corpse. It wasn’t until Boxer had the sense to drag it outside of the store that she finally looked away. 

He returned with a parachute of goodies: a container stuffed to the brim with sandwiches and fruits straight from the Capitol. Janus, Boxer, and Cinda ate in silence; the no-doubt expensive sponsor food had tasted like sandpaper on his tongue. 

Saving a couple of sandwiches for his remaining ally, Janus turned to find Lorelei curled up against a crate. She’d receded into herself, her knees pulled against her chest and an unseeing look in her eyes. Janus almost had to force the food down Lorelei’s throat; she’d hardly moved since killing the Thirteen girl. For the rest of the night, Janus sat with her, pressed against her side as she’d done for him the previous night.

A flash of movement caught his eye; in real time, Thariin had weaseled her arm from her blanket-cocoon, a frown on her face as she fiddled with her cast and tried to keep her eyes on the program at the same time.

The next day in the arena brought with it overwhelming silence. A low fog — not poisonous, thank the heavens — had settled over the city ruins, bringing a chill to the air and muting the shuffling of their footsteps as they walked, as well as their conversation. Boxer had even lost the motive to nose around empty cars, passing up some official-looking vehicles with faded letters emblazoned in rusted paint on the sides. 

A muted cannon echoed eerily through the arena. The Careers; a hunting party consisting of the District Two and Three girls had found the last straggler, the District Seven boy, hiding out behind a half-melted bronze sculpture.

It was difficult for any of the tributes to see more than a few yards ahead of themselves in the fog. Lorelei was back to walking at his side, her fingers laced tightly through his for support; in the other hand, Janus gripped the handle of his knife, still unnerved by the cannon shot. 

The Career hunting party, however, captured the program’s current attention. 

“Final eight,” the District Three girl said offhandedly to her partner. “What do you say we don’t go back to the others?”

The District Two girl considered the idea. “I say _you_ don’t go back,” she decided, drawing two wicked-looking axes from her belt.

Three reacted just in time to block the blow from her former ally, sending a throwing knife whizzing into her stomach. The two girls fought viciously, and far too soon. Two ended up winning the fight with a timely swing of her axe into Three’s heart, but she’d made the fatal mistake of pulling the knife out of her gut. She stumbled through the heavy fog as Three’s cannon went off, stopping under the shelter of an upturned slab of concrete where she lay, bleeding out until her cannon sounded about an hour later. There hadn’t been time for the Capitol to interview either of their families before they died. 

They had interviewed everybody else’s, but the program kept it fairly brief. His parents — he really needed to work on keeping in touch; how long had it been since he’d seen their faces? — were allotted the longest clip, and even then it was only a couple seconds of them pleading for their son to come home. 

The camera flicked back to his alliance, where they poked around a broken-down convenience store using the last of the available daylight to search for supplies, as the store’s lights had long-since died. Cinda got lucky this time, finding some packs of instant noodles and unopened water bottles. 

Janus, who’d been nosing around a looted pharmaceutical aisle, peeked around the corner at her yelp of triumph. “Good find, Cinda,” he praised. 

She was about to respond when they were interrupted by the anthem. Cinda, Boxer, and Lorelei stepped outside to see who’d met their fate earlier. Janus moved to follow, but at the end of the aisle he paused, something underneath the shelf catching his eye. Crouching to investigate, he picked it up, dusting off the label. 

Involuntarily, Janus’s shoulders tensed as his younger self examined the prize: a bottle of sleeping pills, still sealed. 

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I’m not sure what the likelihood of finding a bag of Lay’s and a working car in the post-apocalyptic ruins of a city is, but who knows what was there before the Gamemakers got their grubby little hands on it.. or what they decided to add, I guess. Not sure if anyone’s ever used a VW Beetle as a murder weapon in the hunger games before but I just. Could not get rid of the idea as soon as I had it jfjfj 
> 
> Random note; I had a bit of trouble with keeping the tenses straight in this story since this is switching from Janus’s memory to him currently watching his younger self on tv at various points, so if anything sounds Off, that’s probably why ;-; I’ve been looking at this for too long hfhf


	3. Endings and Futures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At some point in one of the earlier chapters of the previous fic, I mention in passing how Janus won his Games. If anyone reading remembers, I’ll be impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: The Space Between by How to Destroy Angels (https://youtu.be/FeAvIfqAQbc)
> 
> _All our blood lying on the floor  
>  Sense the crowd expecting something more  
> Opened up, proudly on display  
> What we tried so hard to hide away_

____

Even years after the Games ended, Janus spent hours speculating whether the pills had been a gift from the Gamemakers, from his mentor, or if he’d just been lucky enough to find them lying there. Lucky indeed. He’d never found the guts to actually ask Coraline if she’d sent them before she’d died.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thariin glance away from the screen to examine him, assessing his expression for any cracks in his mask. _Cut that out, she’s probably just curious,_ he chided himself. No doubt she knew the story from here. Janus ignored her, his eyes glued to the program, though he wasn’t really watching. 

Outside, the anthem finished; the younger Janus’s gaze flicked between the sleeping pills and the direction of his allies, indecisive. _Alliances are only ever temporary, after all._

Making up his mind, Janus pocketed the pills and went out to join them, catching the portraits of the two Careers and Seven’s boy. What had it taken, a mere couple seconds of thought? 

“There you are,” Lorelei said, smiling as he appeared. 

Janus returned it casually. “Getting down to the wire,” he said, subdued.

Lorelei’s face fell a fraction, barely noticeable in the darkness. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“Alright then. Come with me, Lor,” Janus said, jerking his chin to a shop next to the convenience store they’d just raided. A couch and a set of ripped-up chairs were visible through the shattered window. “Hey, Cinda, if you pass me those packets, I can fix us all some dinner.” The coal-haired girl tossed him the noodle packs and water bottles. Catching them, Janus headed inside the shop, Lorelei at his heels. 

From outside the screen, Janus couldn’t stop the pained sigh that escaped his lips; he followed it with the dregs of his now-cold cocoa-and-schnapps.

Inside the shop — it had actually turned out to be an office of some sort — he mixed the noodles and water in one of the containers they’d previously received from their sponsors. “Won’t be as good cold; I wonder if there’s a microwave here,” he said absentmindedly.

“Oh, over here,” Lorelei said, finding one hidden in an alcove beneath a shelf of cabinets. “Wait, nevermind; it doesn’t work.” 

The younger Janus set the container of steeping noodles on the cracked plastic countertop next to the microwave, moving closer to Lorelei to inspect it further. “Hm, maybe Boxer can fix it up somehow,” he mused, straightening up and pulling his head out of the microwave to glance at Lorelei. “I can call him in here to—“

“Or you could not,” Lorelei interrupted, stepping closer to him. Janus frowned at her quizzically. “I don’t mind if it’s cold,” she said and leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. 

Despite everything, she’d still caught him by surprise. Somehow, all of Lorelei’s reciprocal hints of attraction hadn’t quite added up to that in his oblivious seventeen year-old brain. 

In his peripheral, Janus caught Thariin’s recoil of shock; she hadn’t been expecting it either. No surprise there; it hadn’t taken much effort for Janus to convince the district officials to omit that part of the recap whenever they replayed the highlights of his Games during the Hunger Games season. They, at least, had much more respect for the dead than the Capitol. 

On-screen, Janus’s eyes widened, and Lorelei pulled away, blushing furiously. “I-I’m sorry, I—“

“It’s okay,” he said and kissed her again. _God, why did I do that?_ And yet, it was one thing he’d never been able to truly regret. 

But regret came in many flavors, each more potent than the last. From this camera angle, Janus could clearly see his younger self reaching into his pocket to pull out a handful of sleeping pills, and even now, he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Sometimes it was still hard to believe he’d done something so underhanded, as if he’d planned this from the start; the image of himself created by the Capitol did nothing to dispel this notion. But it wasn’t true, he told himself. He’d simply seized the opportunity when he saw it. Lorelei was certainly too distracted to notice him slipping the pills into the bowl of noodles, her eyes closed and her hands cupped around his face. 

A couple of awkward seconds later — watching this with Thariin had definitely been a mistake — a cough near the front of the store-office interrupted the pair: Boxer standing in the doorway, his hand clapped over Cinda’s eyes. Janus and Lorelei sprang apart on the screen, grinning sheepishly, and Janus rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Hey, I’m not a baby,” Cinda said, pushing away Boxer’s hand with a huff. He caught Thariin rolling her eyes, despite her having said something similar not too long ago.

“Uh, food’s ready, I think,” Janus said on the screen, giving the cold noodles a final stir. Again, he’d gotten lucky; the pills, not too different in color from the flavoring powder, had dissolved completely into the broth. “It’s a bit cold; we couldn’t find anything to heat it with.”

“Mhm,” Boxer hummed, lightheartedly sarcastic. He brightened at the sight of the microwave, pulling at a collection of wires he found upon ripping it out of the wall. It had taken him a couple minutes, but eventually he’d heated the noodles up to a decent temperature, and, having no separate bowls or spoons, they passed around the container to drink. If Janus hadn’t mimed the action of drinking his portion, it surely would’ve made a reappearance. The way they’d trusted him so easily… Even the smell of the laced soup had been enough to make his stomach lurch. 

There were some noodles left at the bottom when the broth was gone; Lorelei plucked a clump with her thumb and index finger, offering them to him. “I’m good,” he waved it off. “Had enough with my broth.” He smiled through the lie, and Lorelei simply shrugged, taking them for herself. 

Boxer leaned back in one of the chairs they’d seen from the window, his hands resting on his stomach. “So… what are we thinking about for tomorrow? I mean, there’s only six of us left, right?”

Cinda, who’d taken the other chair, pulled her legs in close to her chest. 

“Well, we could stay together, for now,” Lorelei suggested from the couch. “At least until the other two are, uh, gone.”

 _Too late, too late._ But they didn't know that; Janus had played his game far too well. 

“What if they separate us on purpose?” Boxer said, shifting uneasily. The nervousness rang clear in his voice. 

Next to Lorelei, Janus spoke up. “Let’s worry about tomorrow when it comes,” he said. _Why couldn't they see through me?_ From the outside perspective, it seemed all too easy; that’s what the Capitolites believed, at least. Thariin glanced at him again from across the room, and he was afraid of what might be visible on his face. Twenty-eight years later and it still ripped him open raw. 

His allies were all too happy to agree with the idea, nodding as their eyelids grew heavy. Little Cinda let out a yawn-turned-squeak as she curled up deeper into the plush chair. “So are you two in love now?” Cinda asked sleepily, the question obviously directed at Janus and Lorelei. 

Lorelei chuckled; his own smile was a little too close to a grimace. “I don’t know, little lady,” she said lazily, snuggling closer into his arms. Janus shrugged, his mind warring between shoving her away and drawing her closer, but in the end, the selfish half won. It was the last chance he’d have for such things. “It’s hard now, but—“ Lorelei cut herself off with a yawn “—I think we’re okay.”

Across the room, Boxer raised a lazy eyebrow. “Huh, I could’ve sworn you’d mentioned a boyfriend in your interview, Lorelei.”

Upon his return, Janus had been unfortunate enough to meet said boyfriend when the kid attempted to shove the new Victor’s head through a wall. Janus couldn’t exactly blame him, though he hadn’t won the Hunger Games only to be done in by an angry ex.

From the comfort of her district partner's arms, Lorelei flipped her ally a rude gesture, and the four of them laughed quietly. 

Eventually, Lorelei, Cinda, and Boxer drifted off, their faces peaceful in their sleep. As usual, Janus kept watch as the moon rose above the skyscrapers through the window, his head growing heavier with each passing minute. 

The program cut sharply through his deliberation time; too soon, Janus disentangled himself from Lorelei’s still-sleeping form, slipping the knife out from where it rested on his belt. He hesitated, his gaze lingering on each of his allies as the thoughts, protests, decisions swam through his mind. How his hand shook; Janus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to steady his resolve, his grip on the knife. He held it for a couple of seconds, then exhaled, his mind made up. 

Sometimes, Janus wondered if, given the opportunity to go back and do it again, he would make the same choice. The answer varied depending on the day, though it returned to ‘yes’ far too often for him to ever be absolved. _It was the only way._

The memory assaulted him in tandem with the program; Janus watched as his younger self reluctantly approached Boxer first, clamping a hand over his ally’s mouth as he slit the younger boy’s throat. Boxer’s eyelids fluttered in panic as Janus held him still, unable to fully cross the bridge between sleep and wakefulness before he died. Shakily, Janus stood, stepping back from the body of his ally, his friend, the disgustingly warm blood now coating his knife, his shirt, his trembling hands.

The cannon woke neither Cinda nor Lorelei; the sleeping pills did their job. With his heart in his throat, Janus approached Cinda next, finding it near-impossible to hold the knife steady. But he did, her blood joining Boxer’s to forever stain his hands. 

Back then, he’d closed his eyes as she died; now, Janus tried to forget how often he saw Cinda’s face in his own daughter’s. The initial realization had only brought him more sleepless nights.

Lorelei murmured in her sleep at the rumble of Cinda’s cannon. When Janus sat down next to her, she’d leaned into his warmth; pain cracked through the face of his younger self, as evident in the moonlight as it was in the back of his throat now. _Oh, Lorelei; why didn’t you wake?_ Gently, gently, he held her with his left arm, using the other to draw the knife across her neck. She spluttered awake like Boxer had, and Janus gingerly shifted her to lie flat on the couch, ignoring her dulled death throes. The cut had been a touch more shallow than the last, and through the haze of the sleeping pills, Lorelei met her killer’s eyes. 

God, how her stare haunted him for years to come; the flash of recognition in her eyes — the unadulterated hurt — cut right into the heart of his being. Janus might have survived the Games, but some part of himself had died along with his allies that night. 

Overhead, the cannon boomed, leaving a terrible, heavy silence in its wake. 

Almost in slow motion, Janus sank down to the floor at the end of the couch where Lorelei’s lifeless head rested. His hands moved to cover his face, and the camera briefly caught the way his shoulders shook before the scene cut away. _Can’t have their Victors showing weakness._

How long had he spent that night, weeping and retching in disgust at what he’d done? Janus couldn’t remember. It had been stricken from history, but it lived forever in his mind, the ever-growing pool of his allies’ blood seeping into his clothes, turning the tile floor slick and red. 

Without breaking his gaze from the viewing screen, he spoke. “They didn’t show it here,” he said quietly, and Thariin turned her head to listen. “But I had to move their bodies out into the open for the hovercraft to pick them up.”

Thariin didn’t respond. Janus couldn’t blame her; what the hell do you say to that? He kept his eyes on the scene of his nightmares, the weight of his sins crushing him as mercilessly as his own knife had been. _Shouldn’t you be over this by now?_ the weary, self-pitying half of his brain begged; the other half merely laughed without mirth. 

Resigned, Janus dragged his mind back to the program where it now showed the two remaining Careers — the District Two boy, Rex, and the District Four girl, Amalthea — camped inside a once-ornate building filled with rows of stone benches. A couple were cracked and mutilated; the tributes had laid their bedrolls between the last row of benches and a raised dais full of colorful shattered glass. Quietly, they mused over the three cannon shots they’d just heard, wondering which member of the opposing alliance had turned killer. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Amalthea said dismissively. “We’ll just take ‘em out easy, and then give the audience a big showdown.” Rex heartily agreed. 

Janus hadn’t slept at all during his last night in the arena, a not-so-subtle hint of what the future held for him. When the camera cut back to his position, the bodies of his dead allies had mysteriously disappeared. He sat forlornly on the blood-soaked couch, shivering in the cold air as he stared blankly out the shattered office-store window. 

It had definitely been for the best that he remained awake; despite his obvious exhaustion, he’d reacted quickly to the legion of gigantic rat mutts that appeared from the back of the office, sending him bolting out the open window. They herded him through the city, snapping hungrily at his heels. Darting around corners, leaping over rubble; he slashed viciously at one of the creatures as it charged at him. The knife stuck too deep, and he was forced to let it go. Janus stayed ahead of them for the most part, suffering only minor scratches as he rounded a corner into the city square. Panting heavily, he swerved around a pile of run-down cars, realizing too late that he’d trapped himself. 

Janus remembered the terror, the blazing panic of his heart pounding in his chest, just as vividly as he remembered the blood of his allies. He’d known then just as he did now that this was it: the final fight.

The camera showed the scene from the younger Janus’s point of view: in front of him loomed a gigantic carved-marble building topped with a large clock face, its hands shifting to the eight o’clock position as it released a deep, sonorous tolling from inside the belltower. The teenager’s eyes darted around wildly as he stood, weaponless, taking in the piles of twisted rubble and rusted cars — and behind that, rat mutts — that encircled him in the square. 

Not a second later, the squawking of pigeons joined the hissing of rats, and the two Careers burst into the circle from Janus’s right. He barely dodged a spear thrown in his direction by Amalthea, launching himself over the hood of a nearby car. 

“It’s Eight, isn’t it?” Amalthea said to her partner, who nodded. “Aw, come out Eight; we’re waiting for you!” Dragging the point of one of her spears across the asphalt, she stalked towards him, the horribly grating sound of blade-against-stone ripping through the early morning air. Just last night, that same sound had sliced its way into his dreams, waking him in a cold sweat.

In the arena, Janus pressed himself against the car, caught between the rat mutts and the Careers. With nowhere else to go, he wrenched the car door open, sliding into the driver’s seat. 

With a grunt, Amalthea hurled her spear towards the windshield, towards Janus’s head. Whatever glass they’d made in pre-Panem times must’ve been strong as steel; it just managed to stop the spear without breaking, the sharp tip inches from Janus’s nose as spidery cracks spread across the windshield. With a gasp, Janus scrambled under the cover of the dashboard just as Amalthea sent another spear his way. This time it went through, and Janus flinched as it rained tinkling shards of glass over his hunched form. 

“Come _on!”_ Amalthea screeched, grinding the butt of her last spear into the pavement. 

Ignoring her, Janus fumbled at the plastic covering underneath the steering wheel, forcing the seat back as far as he could to make room for himself. 

The camera cut away from Janus as the Rex from Two began to pace, hefting his sword. “Y’know,” he said passively, “I think it would be a lot easier to take him on at the end than you.” Amalthea whipped around, barely raising her spear in time to block the strike of his sword. 

Their battle distracted them from the pathetic District Eight boy supposedly cowering on the inside of a broken-down car. Meanwhile, Janus frantically stripped wires with his teeth, struggling to twist them together with trembling fingers. “Come on, come on, _come on,”_ he hissed. Remnant feelings of _panic-terror-stress_ washed over him now as he watched his younger self tie and re-tie the wires, cursing when the sharp point cut him on the finger. 

The Careers’ fight effectively concluded when Rex shoved his sword into Amalthea’s back; simultaneously, Janus sparked the wires, and the vehicle’s engine roared to life. Tires screeched as he floored the gas, and Rex’s head snapped towards the sound, panic flaring in his eyes as the mass of heavy metal flattened him to the street. No cannon yet; picking up one of Amalthea’s spears, Janus stepped out of the car to find his opponent lying prone on the pavement. Rex’s chest rose and fell shallowly, more than one limb sticking out at an odd angle. Clearly he was in pain; this was a mercy kill. 

Standing over the Career, Janus gripped the spear, the point hovering inches above Rex’s chest. The boy hardly noticed, his eyes glazed over from the agony of multiple broken bones. Janus had nothing against him, really. Rex hardly seemed like a bad kid as far as Careers go, but god, he’d just wanted to go _home._

Releasing a breath, Janus shoved the spear through his enemy’s heart. 

The last cannon sounded, quickly followed by a fanfare of trumpets proclaiming Janus Shyle of District Eight the Victor of the One Hundred and Fortieth Hunger Games.

God, if he hadn’t gotten lucky with that car… _Lucky, lucky, lucky._

But was he, really? The life of a Victor brought with it only pain and trauma, and every demand from the Capitol seemed designed to compound it tenfold. Mentor the children chosen for slaughter; sell yourself at their whims for the ghost of a chance for your tribute’s survival; disobey, and your loved ones pay the price. Who in their right mind would call that lucky?

At the bare minimum, he lived to see the dawn. The best had only come with Zhara the year of the Quell, nevermind her ignorant, airheaded mother. 

And the worst… Janus had completely disregarded the unspoken taboo of killing his district partner, no doubt made worse by his actions beforehand. His actions, or Lorelei’s? _Not that it mattered._ He’d faced more than just the Capitol’s repercussions for that.

Clicking the handheld remote, Janus lowered the volume of the program to a muted buzz as the president placed a golden crown atop his head on the screen. Again, Thariin studied his face, searching for something that would reveal more than his words as she processed the events she’d just witnessed. “As you can imagine, I did not receive the warmest of welcomes upon my return,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

Thariin simply hummed in agreement, unsurprised. 

“It became very clear to me once I came back that Lorelei had been the district’s favorite to win,” Janus continued, his tone subdued in the early morning hours. “Fortunately, this is not a problem you will have to face.”

He could tell that his words did nothing to assuage her qualms regarding her return; the opposite, even. “What will it be like, when I get back?” she asked, unable to keep the uncertainty from her voice.

Like himself and every other Victor, she would never live a normal life. The only certainty was an annual trip to the Capitol and all that came with it. “I’m not sure,” Janus answered honestly. “But things will be different for you. Whatever your life was like before this, you can never go back. Though I’m sure you could’ve guessed that much.”

How many times had he wished to go back, to undo what he’d done? 

Even months after his initial return, the animosity of the district still seeped into his daily life, making it near-impossible for Janus to show his face in public. Which would’ve been fine, except for the fact that his house in Victor’s Village was so far from his previous life: his few friends, his school (not that he’d had any intention of returning), his father’s tailor shop, the factory where his mother no longer needed to work, all at least a half an hour’s transit from his new residence. It had been all too easy to slip into a life of seclusion, where the majority of the district population seemed to want him anyways. 

What had been the point of winning, he’d often thought, when the entire district seemed to wish him dead anyways? 

One particularly lonely evening, Coraline somehow managed to wheedle these thoughts out of him, and she had not been impressed. “So what?” she’d snapped, displaying an incredible lack of tact. “You went through all of that just to sit here and mope?” 

At a loss for words, Janus had no choice but to listen. 

“I don’t care what the others say, and neither should you,” his mentor continued sharply. “Keep your fucking chin up and make your life worth six.” 

Her words sank in like bleach on a cotton shirt. A rather brutal way to express care and concern for someone, but Coraline had never been one for niceties. He couldn’t deny her effectiveness, though; the next morning, he’d hopped on a metro to the DMV across town and politely asked for a driver’s license application, perhaps out of cheekiness. It had taken a couple of tries to register for a class, and even more to pass the exam (for some reason, the district officials had been rather reluctant on the matter), but he’d felt an odd sense of pride upon receiving the flimsy plastic card.

Additionally, convincing his father to let him take shifts at the tailor shop had helped to further push back the numbness. As Janus hadn’t needed the money, he’d taken to mending and outfitting the clothes of people who couldn’t afford the standard rates, free of charge. It helped immensely with his public image and with choosing a talent, as required of all Victors by the Capitol; clothing design may be a stereotypically District Eight choice, but it was an area where he’d already held a certain expertise. 

After a brief silence, Thariin spoke, drawing Janus back to the present. “Good,” she said, her tone quiet but resolute. “I don’t want to go back.”

How long would that sentiment stick? Her expression was completely serious, despite the encroaching fatigue of early morning, and Janus smiled almost sadly. “Hold on to that, Thariin.” He exhaled a tired sigh. “In the meantime, you should get some sleep. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

As of yet, none of Janus’s returns from the Capitol had ever eclipsed the significant awfulness of his first trip home, and for that, he was thankful. This time, at least, there was actually something to celebrate. 

Across from him, nestled into the plush cushions of the viewing room couch, the newest Victor drifted off to sleep; Janus couldn't help envying how easy it seemed to be for her. As silently as he could, he slipped out of the car, snagging a thicker blanket from his quarters, knowing how the train tended to get cold this early in the morning. Gently, as not to disturb her, he draped the blanket over Thariin’s almost-sleeping form as he’d often done for Zhara when he’d found her up late watching television or doing homework. 

Settling back onto the opposite couch, Janus stretched his legs across the cushions, switching the television program back to the low murmur of the arctic nature documentary. 

Though it had been long since Coraline’s passing, Janus still felt compelled to keep his end of the bargain. He hadn’t quite reached six, but with Zhara and now Thariin, he was getting there.

Maybe, just maybe, he deserved a little rest this time. 

____

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started writing this little bit, all I knew was that whoever Janus allies with, he ends up killing them. That was actually like.. the first thing I knew about his character at all, now that I think about it. So of course, my brain was like “okay how can you make this as Horrible as possible?” And now here we are.. rip. Someone needs to take away my romance-writing card (I don’t think this really counts anyways but).. 
> 
> I’m not sure when I’ll start posting the next part in the series; I’ve started writing it, but then my brain started skipping ahead to writing scenes that will come like.. three installments down the line, and I am just letting it happen bc if I stick to writing in chronological order like my middle school brain wants to, I’ll never get Anything done. That bitch never finished Anything they started, smh. 
> 
> Anyways, lmk what u guys think of this last bit! Slowly but surely I’m adding details to this little universe lol


End file.
